


Birdsong

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Comfort, First Time, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Regency, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker
Summary: Mr. Finch, amateur birder and man of mystery, makes the acquaintance of a local farmer, Lionel Fusco in this attempt at Regency romance.
Relationships: Harold Finch/Lionel Fusco, Nathan Ingram/John Reese
Comments: 45
Kudos: 7





	1. A chance meeting

It was by chance that Lionel Fusco, owner of Copper Fox Farm met Harold Finch's acquaintance. He happened to be searching for a missing dairy goat but found a whiskered, bespectacled dandy of a man instead.

"You're not a goat," Fusco observes, goggling at him with admiration, his violet waistcoat and cream colored linens sadly stained by the numerous ferns and torn by the abundance of brambles of this neglected corner of the farm.

"Indeed," agrees the stranger who is not put out the least by Fusco's odd comment or his roughspun attire. "A good thing, I think." At that they both laugh and that is when they became friends.

Introductions are exchanged and Fusco can now put a face to the gentleman that has had the whole village abuzz, the mysterious stranger brought to Ingram Lodge by Lord Nathan himself. 

Rumored to be missing all both arms and legs, more monster than man, Fusco feels a rush of relief at Mr. Finch's comely continence and shapely limbs and what is a limp when considering his luminous eyes and fine mouth?

"I was following the cries of a pied flycatcher," Finch explained. "A bird I very much hope to add to my list."

What this list is, Fusco doesn't rightly know but when Finch describes the bird in question, he is able to guide him to the very tree that's the home of a nesting pair and their little family.

"You've made me the happiest of men," Finch tells him, tucking his his hand on the elbow that Fusco offers, (The way is boggy and I can't have you fall.)

That makes two of us, Fusco thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

No sooner does he enter the front hall of Ingram Lodge than Harold Finch is set upon by a man with the darkened brows of the frantic. A man bearing a heavy piece of toweling that is instantly applied to Finch's head with great gusto.

"We were about to send out a search party," the man, Mr. Reese, blurts with great emotion. "Out galavanting in a thunderstorm!"

Finch grabs Reese's hands. "I was birdwatching and a mizzle, nothing more. I lost my landmarks but our kindly neighbor to the west escorted me home."

"Lionel Fusco," Reese replies, his mouth set as if he'd just tasted something particularly nasty. 

"Young Lionel," says Nathan fondly, perhaps even wistfully.

"So you know him?" asks Harold keenly.

"His father was the second son so purchased a commission in the Royal Navy. Lionel grew up in London but summered at Copper Fox Farm. I was several years his senior and he followed me about like a pup. He had the appearance of a cherubim, with his dimpled flesh and tumbles of curls...but he was tough as nails and always wanted to wrestle me and the older boys." 

Harold detects a hint of sadness and presses Nathan; "You hurt, didn't you."

Nathan shrugs. "I was packing my trunks for Oxford when he came to me, heart on his sleeve. I tried to be gentle..."

"Poor lad," Harold sighs. "Neither the first nor the last."

Nathan has the good grace to look saddened. He continues.

"He stayed away after that, following his father by going to sea but he didn't have the stomach for it, and so joined the Metropolitan Police, There they found Lionel possessed the peculiar intelligence becoming the youngest addition to Scotland Yard. Copper Fox was entailed to him as his uncle had died."

After stepping away, Reese returns, bearing cups of steaming tea. "I've heard that he had to leave the Yard, that there was a bit of a scandal..."

"Where did you acquire this information?" asks Harold peevishly.

Reese shrugs. "The Ladies."

Their trio had only returned to Ingram Lodge a day before learning of their most peculiar new neighbors to the west, living in the trim white and black house that had been vacated by the death of ancient Lady Bracknell. Ladies Shaw and Groves had gone from the toasts of the ton by ending their engagements and fleeing to the countryside, by all accounts living a life together most harmonious and fine. And if anyone find fault with their habit of exclusivity donning finely tailored men's garments, Lady Shaw sees to changing their minds. The house, situated so close to the road and because they spend most of their leisure at tending their garden, they are reknown experts at gathering and disseminating gossip.

"Fusco chose to resign rather than be fired. Or worse, sent to gaol," Lady Shaw told me. "Some matter of opium and missing money." Reese gives Harold an dark look, adding,"Not to mention an uptick in bodies fished from the Thames."

"He's a widow and a recent one at that, with a little boy, about seven." Lord Nathan frowns. "You seem very serious, Harold. What manner of spell did he cast on you?"

"Nevermind that," Harold replies. "But if you must know, he's asked to to come for tea tomorrow.

"Must you go?" asks Reese. "I'd prefer that you not consort with known criminals."

Harold bates his tongue so as not to ask, 'Isn't that rich, coming from you?' or something equally as snide. Instead, he takes Reese's hand in his own, lifting it to his lips. "Are we not criminals ourselves? "


	3. Chapter 3

As luck would have it, Fusco had dispatched two fat cockerel that very morning and it warms him considerably to see Aunt Bertha and Lee sitting on the stone steps of the kitchen, busily plucking the birds he intends to make a centerpiece of tomorrow's tea.

"We're having a guest tomorrow," he announces after kissing their cheeks (ruffling Lee's bright curls, so like his own).

"Who, Papa? Who?" begs Lee, as sociable a boy as Fusco had been himself.

"A Mr. Finch from up at Ingram's," he replies, a smile breaking broadly as he contemplates the potential delights of such an assignation. "He was dithering about the back pasture, lost as a newborn lamb".

"Looking for birds, perchance?" Aunt Bertha asks indulgently; having born no child, she looks upkon Lionel and Lee as her own, the children of her heart.

Fusco's eyebrows rise. "How come you by that information?"

"Mrs. Baker mentioned it in passing." 

Mrs. Baker, Ingram Lodge's housekeeper of old and Aunt Bertha's particular friend, an astute woman who might have run Scotland Yard if not for being a member of the fairer sex, Fusco is wont to observe.

"What else?" 

Aunt Bertha purses her lips, vastly amused by her nephew's unusual demeanor. After the death of Mrs. Fusco and the strain of both running the farm and raising his newborn son, he had shown no inclination towards courting any of the eligible ladies knocking down his door.

"Why Lionel, has your cap been set for the mysterious Mr. Finch?"

Refusing to be twitted, Fusco replies plainly. "Mayhaps it has, Auntie dear. He seems a splendid fellow."

"That's the very thing reported by Mrs. Baker. Perhaps Mr. Finch is a bit eccentric but he is thoughtful and kind to her and the staff. Not overburdening them with demands, even though he might, his infirmities considered.

"I am not asking him to run a race, Auntie. A limp should not be a bother if one considers his otherwise stellar attributes."

Little pitchers have big ears and so Aunt Bertha makes an adjustment. "Comme son gros cul."

Fusco blushes. "Oui."

Lee suddenly drops to the grass, rolling and kicking his heels. "Fat butt! His butt is fat!"

Turning to Aunt Bertha, Fusco asks, "How's your German?"

*

"Lee and I will attend church tomorrow. With luck his current adventures in French will have run its course and he will be suitably behaved around your new friend."

"Pray on it," Fusco replies with visible relief. Devising his menu on a scrap of brown paper, he reviews the dishes he's given question marks. "Are three different varieties of pickles enough or too many?" he asks Aunt Bertha. "Freshly baked bread or day old? Perhaps he's dyspeptic and prefers old. Nevermind, I'll serve both, he mutters to himself. Watching Aunt Bertha roll pastry crust, he asks, "Are you certain that you don't mind preparing lemon tarts?"

Aunt Bertha's lemon tarts are famous, having won blue ribbons the the festival ten years running. "It wouldn't be tea for company without them," she reassures him.

***

"Get up," orders Finch, pulling off bedclothes to reveal Reese and Nathan's bare forms."

"Wah???" whines Nathan. "Harold, it's the crack of dawn."

"More like midmorning," Harold retorts unsympatheticly. "Pair of you are attending church."

"Why?" asks Reese, trying unsuccessfully to tame his cowlicks. "We usually don't."

Harold taps his foot. "All the more reason. Although the congregation will likely faint dead at the sight of the Ingram pew's being used. Let's hope they've dusted it."

Then taking pity on their poor, hungover faces, he gets to the point. "I need needing a ride to Copper Fox Farm."


	4. Chapter 4

Throwing aside the the piece of toweling he's using to dry his hands, Fusco rushes to answer the door.

"Mr. Finch!", he exclaims, stepping aside to allow his guest to passage into the ancient front hall of Berry Hill Farm's secluded farmhouse. "Enter and be welcome!"

Smiling broadly, Mr. Finch scrapes his boots to remove their coating of wet snow and behind him, Fusco spies the familiar bulk of Lord Ingram's phaeton. Mr. Finch's man servant, a lean fellow with a martial air, gathers up the reins after assisting Mr. Finch from the phaeton while Lord Ingram stares unabashedly. Fusco can't close the door fast enough.

"Welcome to Copper Fox Farm." Taking Mr. Finch's proferred outer coat, hat and gloves, placing them on the hall tree, his hands avoiding the somber lavender sheeting covering its long mirror. "After the favorable resolution to yesterday's misadventure, I count myself a lucky man and today, more still that you have graced me with your presence. But..."

"But?"

"Your companions fixed me with the most uncanny looks, I'm afraid I fell momentarily discombobulated."

"Pray tell," says Mr. Finch, grasping Fusco's hands encouraging.

"Your man, Reese? He looked as though he has plans for my immediate demise."

"That does sound like Reese," admits Finch. "He's not over busy as of late, recovering from a musket ball to the gullet." He taps the side of his forehead. "I'm totting up a list of jobs that should keep him suitably busy. An idle mind is the Devil's plaything, as they say. And Ingram?"

"Lord Ingram's look was inexplicable. A cross between wanton and of an egg-sucking cur."

"I'm doubling my list," Finch chuckles. "Ingram requires a firm hand at the reins, a task left to me when Lady Ingram is in Town." He smiles. "But I do see what inspired him."

"Oh?"

Finch removes a silk kerchief from inside his jacket, bottle green to match his waistcoat. He licks at it with the tip of his pink tongue, a sight that makes Fusco's knees buckle. 

"Hold still," orders Finch, dabbing the kerchief along Fusco's cheeks and the tip of his nose. "You had flour."


	5. Chapter 5

A Small Amount of Story Background

Not a real chapter.

Ok, guys, let's see... Lee is very, very bright as is Fusco.

Fusco's wife was a bitch, as we will eventually see. Um, about 10 years before the story, Nathan and Harold were in a terrible explosion. Harold pushed Nathan to safety, bearing the brunt of the injuries.

Brokenhearted, Nathan hires Reese, a former soldier of fortune, to work as Harold's valet, bodyguard, companion and while Reese is absolutely devoted to Harold, he is in love with Nathan and vice versa.

Fusco's aunt is in a relationship with Ingram Lodge's housekeeper! 

Oh, Harold and Nathan are enormously rich, due to Harold's genius and Nathan's personality.


	6. Chapter 6

"There's one other thing to draw your attention to," says Finch.

Fusco sighs. "I figured as much, the way it looked like Reese wanted to wrap those paws around my neck..." "Shhhh," says Finch. 

"Close your eyes."

Fusco is starting to suspect that Finch like ordering people about. Fusco also suspects that he enjoys Finch ordering him about. The foyer opens to the left to a smallish room, the sitting room, for want of a better name. Martha. Fusco's late wife, had ordered, begged and shouted for a pianoforte to grace the room -the Music Room, she had called it. "One, neither of us play," he'd said, adding, "The room is too small for such an object. And. "you just want one because your sister in Cheapside has a damn harpsichord!"

The argument had carried on for days, causing Fusco to comb through the attic for a dusty old fainting couch of ancient origin. He had slept on it during the months before Martha's untimely death and he sleeps there still. The room's remaining furnishings are a Franklin stove and massive, mirrored hall tree. 

Sightless, Fusco shuffled, almost dancing with the sway of Finch's limp until he's aware that they've stopped in front of the hall tree.

He's aware of the warmth of Finch's body and his own heated response. 

"Keep them closed," he whispers in Fusco's ear, send fields of goosebumps aflight. Finch removes his hands, placing them on Fusco's shoulders. "Open."

Fusco's knees buckle, Finch catching him just in time with surprisingly strong arms. 

Fusco's cheeks burn at the indignity; he'd forgotten to remove the apron he'd donned while cleaning and cooking. The apron is one of Aunt Bertha's oldest, full bodied, pink gingham with any number of flounces and bits of ribbon and lace.

"Please leave."

"Why?" Finch asks, his color equally bright, his eyes hungry.

"I...I..."

Spontaneously, Finch kisses his neck. "Don't you know how gorgeous you are?"

"You can't be serious. I look a fool," Fusco says miserably, fumbling with the apron strings. 

Finch catches his hands. "You look a dream. But that's not surprising. When I spied you in the woods I imagined you a creature from ancient myth, a sweet faun or perhaps a lusty satyr."

Judging Finch earnest, Fusco takes a deep, gasping breath. "And you a dryad," Fusco says boldly. "I'd have had you on a bed of moss and purple violets, the birds singing sweetly as we rut. I'd have you inside me if I could." He starts fumbling with the apron strings again but Finch has other ideas. 

"No, leave it on."


	7. Chapter 7

Finch slips his hand beneath the apron, cupping Fusco's aching groin. "Oh, my!" 

Fusco pushes down his trousers, moaning as Finch grips his shaft, working his way to the top. He wipes the slit with his thumb, spreading the slipperiness below Fusco's crown as he sinks his teeth into the thick of his shoulder. Finch's glasses steam up as they pant together.

"I've never..." whimpers Fusco as he leans into Finch and his clever hands.

"I have," replies Finch reassuringly. He touches down between Fusco's cheeks. "Are you certain this is good? What you want?"

"Never been more certain."

"Then let us repare to the chaisse longue and I will make you ready."

Now there are two things of which Fusco is certain; Harold Finch is a very good kisser and is also quite bossy. Fusco finds both traits enchanting.

Sitting, he watches raptly as Finch shimmys his trousers past his knees. He reveals a prodigious male organ, the ideal object for stripping one's...virginity, Fusco thinks.

Finch produces a small ceramic jar from his coat. He unscrews the lid, showing Fusco the contents. 

"A moisturizing cream, Swiss " Fusco reads with a squint.

"Slippery," Finch explains happily. "Just the thing."

Fusco rolls his eyes. "Do you frequently carry moisturizer?"

"My hands get dry," Finch replies defensively.

Handling his prick, allowing it to grow to fullness, Fusco laughs. "So you say you did not visit me with the intention to swive me?"

Finch ducks his head, kissing Fusco's knee. "I came for tea," he answers primly. "Anything else is...extra." He runs a generous dollop of the cream from Fusco's shaft, balls and anus. "I believe in being prepared."

*

"Tuck ypour knees beneath you, yes, so good." Fusco's nerves are quite by Finch's patter of commands punctuated by sweet praise so he is alarmed when Finch suddenly gasps.

"How goes it? he asks, head craning.

"Mon Dieu!" Finch manages to exclaim. "Your ass! A thing of beauty is a joy forever." Finch squeezes and knead like a rapturous bread maker. "That's a quote, my friend..."

"Keats," interrupts Fusco. "John Keats. I may be a simple farmer but I do read." 

"Splendid," gasps Finch, guiding himself home slowly and completely.

"Splendid," Fusco agrees, "Spledid, splendid, splendid!"


	8. Chapter 8

Finch's seed trickles from him, along his crack and past his balls, dripping onto the apron that's catching Fusco's own spendings. Fusco picks lazilyily at the apron strings resting clammy beneath his fingers as he listens to Finch splash at the wash stand. He whistles a pretty tune as he dresses, pushing Fusco towards the edge of slumber.

"I'll get that," Finch says, moving Fusco's hands aside. His fingers are nimble but he after a moment he quits. Reaching into his left boot, he withdraws a gleaming jackknife. "Mr. Reese insists," he says by way of explanation. "Positively gordian," Finch comments softly but in a thrice, the apron strings are freed.

Fusco carefully gathers the pink gingham fabric, preventing any spillage. "I guess it's ruined," he says, wiping himself with a corner of his aunt's old apron. After pulling his trousers up and tucking in his shirt, Fusco balls the soiled garment, leaning down to tuck it safely away in a drawer of the hall tree. In the mirror, Finch's movements catch his eye - he digs through his overcoat, removing a leather wallet. His eyes snapped shut, Fusco hears the cold clinking of gold on the marble of the washstand.

"I hope this is enough," Finch explains, gesturing at the stack of five gold guineas.  
"I never know how much these things are..."

Every bit of bonhomie vanishes, drained from Fusco as he takes in the tableau before him. Finch, richer than God, richer than King George, looks smug and self-satisfied, like a man who has bought a good horse. Like a man who has bought Fusco without Fusco even knowing.

"Out!" 

Fusco's shout visibly startles Finch as does the unexpected thrust of his hat into his hands and the sudden clamor of the front door opening. "Be gone with you and never let your shadow darken my doorway!"

As luck would have it, Lord Ingram's carriage is turning up the drive

Fusco slams the door and bars it shut.


	9. Chapter 9

"You did what?!?"

Finch flinches at Nathan's roar and Reese's look of shocked dismay.

He lifts his tear-streaked face from the sofa's pillow. "I offered him five guineas," he whispers. "It was to replace the apron we'd soiled. Then he became furious and I...I don't know why."

Reese whistles. "You've said it before but you really aren't good at human interactions."

"There's no denying that," Finch sniffles . "But what did I do wrong?"

Lord Ingram and Reese exchange glances; Ingram sighs. "Mr. Fusco thought you were paying for his services."

"His services?"

"His ass," Reese interjects bluntly. "He thought you paying for his ass. Fusco thinks you judged him a prostitute."

They fall silent except for quiet sips of their drinks; Reese's expression growing more and more pained until he placed his tea cup down with a clatter. He clamors to his feet.

"We've established that you didn't explain what the money was for and now I ask you if you thought to thank Mr. Fusco...after? Did you compliment him? Aftet the deed did you reassure him of his worth in your eyes? Say how good it was and hope that it was good for him as well?"

"Uhhhh."

"Mr. Fusco, his wearing the apron as evidence, had obviously worked tirelessly on providing an excellent tea. Probably waking before the crack of dawn to clean and bake and roast so that he might please you. How thoughtful! And now that work was for nothing." Reese's voice grows louder, deeper. "Imagine how it feels to be taken for granted!" Turning on his heels, Reese storms off.

"I think some of that was for you," observes Finch, eyeing Ingram's sulky, miserable blush.


	10. Chapter 10

Ignoring his aunt's entreaties and the spread of food still covering the table, Fusco grabs an apple. He's pleased that Lee is too too enraptured by the tarts and the slab of chocolate cake ges piled onto his plate to notice his father's blanched, unhappy expression. Aunt Bertha does and it's only due the years of practice as a skilled interrogator that he manages to avoid Aunt Bertha's gently lobbed questions.

"I'm going to check on the animals before it gets dark."

She nods but thankfully says nothing.

*

Fusco's what he and the boys at the Metropolitan called a 'hinky' feeling the moment he steps past the inner pasture - the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise. He feels as though he's being watched. 

Knowing that Mr. Finch couldn't possibly ford the drifts of snow that had formed since noon, Fusco continues his stroll, aching to take ax to tree but the closest trees are fruit bearing and almost as deat to him as kin. Instead, he makes a ball of snow and tosses it with great force at the gooseberry shrubs instead. To his alarm, he hears a muffled gasp coming from said area. "Out with you! Be you friend or foe, let me gaze upon you lest I get my musket!"

An amused chuckle replaces the gasp as a tall man dressed in black emerges. "If I had a mind, I could kill you dozens of times ere you reach the fence, much less your musket. If I had a mind."

"I'm surprised you didn't pounce before I spotted you," says Fudvo bravely. "It would have saved you some bruises."

The man, Mr. Reese, he recalls, nods respectfully, giving Fusco a look from head to toe. An appraisal of Fusco's broad shoulders and long reach, not to mention his bravado.

"Perhaps," Reese says carefully and with a not inconsiquential measure of respect. "I'm here about this afternoon."

Fusco raises an eyebrow. "Do you speak for your master?"

Reese nods.

Fusco digs into a pocket, withdrawing a small leather pouch which he tosses towards Reese's feet. "Then return this to him for I've no need for ill gotten gains."

"Listen, there's been a mistake. a misunderstanding..."

Disgusted from allowing himself to be so ill used, so naive to have believed himself worthy of a gentleman's affections, Fusco's heart near breaking under the twin burdens of anger and shame. Consequently, when Reese steps clos enough, hand outstretched to return the pouch, Fusco swings his right fist, catching Reese and his handsome jaw unawares.

Wiping his lower lip, Reese stares at the blood, his eyes, a pretty blue, now resembling a jungle cat or wolf. "I can play this game," Reese says, his conversational tones as light and pleasing as his eyes seem mad. Throwing his left fist with lightning speed, Fusco doesn't have time to block; the blow to his brow leaves him staggered, bent., his hands clutching his knees.

"Are you...?" Reese asks, his voice directly overhead. His thoughts are incomplete because Fusco, exaggerating his injury, kicks put, his hobnailed boot smashing against Reese's right knee.  
Taking advantage, Fusco flips straddles Reese's hips, ready to mash handfuls of snow onto those strange eyes, eyes that were blinking up at him with impossibly long and spotty lashes, beaming at Fusco with inexplicable affection.

"Take back the gold and we'll call it a draw," Fusco tells him. Tells him that there's been enough hurting that day and that he's sorry about his knee.

Moving stiffly until he's sitting, Fusco gives Reese his hand and when they are side by side, he wraps snow in his clean kerchief and so rests it along Reese's jaw.

Reese explains about the money and then explains it again because Fusco can't fathom it. Reese tells him about how he hadn't realized how much he does and how much he's taken for granted. Then he rests the kerchief against Fusco's blackening eye, allowing Fusco to cup his hand so that it's placed just so and the sun is going down, coloring the snow scarlet as their lips meet in a kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

As Reese had predicted, the table groans with food and Fusco notes the lack of surprise that the tea is served in the kitchen instead of the parlor. "You're American?" he guesses.

Reese nods, staring raptly at the bounty in front of him. "I was born in Maine but as a soldier, I've made Europe my home. Until Lord Ingram found me I was living in Paris, having fought with the French." 

Fusco is happy to follow Reese's lead and not discuss England and France's habitual warfare. "Found you?" he asks, taking note of the strange phrasing. 

Reese shrugs. "I was living on the streets, more wine in me than blood, I figure. But Ingram recognized something in me and offered me a job. Mr. Finch had just been sorely injured and needed a companion, someone to see to his needs. 

Fusco finishes loading Reese's plate, adding a second pickle to go with the cold chicken, sliced tongue, two varieties of Copper Fox farm's famed cheddars, a healthy spoonful of imported chutney and two rolls. Perhaps there was room for a roast beef sandwich and some butter-cooked mushrooms?

"Please, Lionel!" Reese interjects, smoothly whisking the loaded plate from Fusco's hand. Somehow, on the cold, wet trudge back to the house, they had agreed to use their christian names. "Yes, John," Fusco replies fondly. 

Aunt Bertha insists on serving the tea as she chides Lee for not washing his hands.

They briefly lower their heads in prayer, Fusco's long habit, more an acquiescence to Bertha's preference that Lee be raised in a godly house. John doesn't seem to mind, ending the grace before meals in the Papist manner.

"It's late and as I fear the snow will continue, John will spend tonight with us," he says firmly over his third cup of tea.

"Perhaps even longer," John replies. "I badly wrenched my knee and fear it must be wrapped and rested."

Fusco clears his throat, glancing between Aunt Bertha and John. "Then you must share my bed, for it is most commodious and I will be able to see to your needs without disturbing the family. Aunt Bertha already does so much for us and Lee needs his sleep."

"Please, John? You must stay and heal, I insist," Aunt Bertha implores, grasping John's hand with emphasis. "We can send word to Ingram Lodge in the morning and if you borrow one of Lionel's nightshirts,   
I can launder your clothes tonight."

"Please stay, Mr. John," pleads Lee.

"I'd be honored,. Now, might I have one of those lemon tarts? And a square of cake and some more tea?" asks John, somehow perfectly at home with the Fuscos.


	12. Chapter 12

Fusco's old nightshirt is made of thick red flannel and the hem lands just above his knees. Reese, wrists jutting from the sleeves, attempts a girlish twirl but fails, crashing to the bed. He gathers Reese's discarded clothing, Fusco cringes, worried that a cloud of dust will envelop them. Aunt Bertha, leaning on the doorframe, tussles Fusco's curls. "I've changed the sheets weekly, same as before.

Before? Fusco can barely contemplate the time before Lee's birth and his wife's death without wanting to crawl into a hole. He sits heavily on the bed, clothing sliding from his arms. Reese scoops them up, handing them to the lady of the house. "Thank you, Mrs. Fusco."

She nods. "Please sir, we are family here and I insist that you call me Aunt Bertha."

Ignoring his aching knee, Reese take her hand with a flourish, kissing her knuckles. "Enchante, Aunt Bertha. And will you be kind enough to call me John in return?"

"Of course," she replies in a flustered manner. "Of course, dear John." She turns to Fusco, gesturing to the hallway. "May I speak to you, Lionel. A private matter."

"No need to leave if you could point me to the privy?"

*

"Lionel, I shall not find peaceful slumber if I do not speak my peace."

Fusco's disturbed thoughts are put aside so concerned he is by his aunt's urgency. An odd old duck to some, he's relied upon her since boyhood and it would be foolish to not avail himself of her wisdom. However much he loathes to hear it.

"Pray, go on." 

"I would be remiss not to point out the oddness of your ending your long season of celibacy with not one but two assignations. Assignations of the masculine variety, I might add."

"Auntie!"

"Dearest child, I can hardly ignore what's been in front of me since you were but a boy in short pants. Just as I cannot expect that you haven't noticed the particular nature of my friendship with Mrs. Cook."

Ingram Lodge's housekeeper. the provider of biscuits and bandages from the first day he'd tussled with Lord Ingram. Three years Fusco's senior, Nathan had inspired Fusco's slavish devotion. How obvious, Fusco must have been...but how did Aunt Bertha discern the activities of this day?


	13. Chapter 13

"Lionel, I shall not slumber if I do not speak my piece."

Fusco's disturbed thoughts are put aside so concerned he is by his aunt's urgency. An odd old duck to some, he's relied upon her since boyhood and it would be foolish to not avail himself of her wisdom. However much he loathes to hear it.

"Pray, go on." 

"I would be remiss not to point out the oddness of your ending your long season of celibacy with not one but two assignations. Assignations of the masculine variety, I might add."

"Auntie!"

"Dearest son of mine, I can hardly ignore what's been in front of me since you were but a boy in short pants. Just as I cannot expect that you haven't noticed the particular nature of my friendship with Mrs. Cook."

Ingram Lodge's housekeeper. the provider of biscuits and bandages from the first day he'd tussled with Lord Ingram. Three years Fusco's senior, Nathan had inspired Fusco's slavish devotion. How obvious, Fusco must have been...but how did Aunt Bertha discern the activities of this day?  
As if reading his mind, she explains. "My eyes may be growing dim but my nose is as sharp as ever."

Fusco gasps, wishing fruitlessly that the floor would swallow him up. His and Finch's commingled essences? How shameless they had been! Rutting like wild beasts?"

"What you are thinking, yes, but Mr. Finch was kind to share his recent shipment from Switzerland. Mrs. Cook is quite liberal with the use of hand cream when we..."

They both blush now. Fusco sits on the corner, rubbing the back of his neck.

"One assignation, not two," he admits ruefully. "With Reese it wasn't physical but for one kiss."

She laughs outright, gently touching the edge of the bruise blossoming near his eye. "You know there's more than one way to express affection. And desire. I like John Reese very much. Mr. Finch, too." She sighs. "As my grandmother would say, 'Protect your heart as you would your other vital organs."

There's a polite cough.

"Goodnight, Madame," Reese says gallantly.


	14. Chapter 14

Fusco pulls down the covers. "Do you have a side?"

Reese shrugs. "It's your bed."

"I haven't slept in this chamber in almost eight years. Take your pick."

Reese slides beneath the covers on the closest side. Fusco extinguishes the lamp. The swirling snow patters against the window. "The snowfall continues. You may need to spend more than just this night. The roads will be impassable, especially with your injury."

Reese gingerly moves his leg, turning to face Fusco. "Good thing it's a comfortable bed. And pleasant company."

Fusco exhales, realizing now that he'd been holding his breath. The story of his wife's passing, the one generally known, is difficult enough but to share the truth? Tired to the bones, his eyelids flutter shut.

Reese tugs at him, pulling him closer. "May I hold you?" 

Fusco yawns. placing Reese's hand over his heart. "Yes."

*

Dawn breaks. It takes a moment for Fusco's eyes to clear but the sight that greets him is worth any effect.

Reese is at the bedroom's wash stand, back to Fusco. In the warm light Fusco views his broad shoulders, his tapered waist and his ample athletic bottom. The only garment Reese has on is the makeshift bandage around his knee. Squeezing the sponge he's holding, Reese bends to wash his well-muscled legs.

Fusco gasps.

"Good morning," says Reese, greeting Fusco with a smile that Fusco matches.


	15. Chapter 15

It's bad enough that Fusco's got 'morning wood' without the extra stimulation provided by Reese but the urgency of his bladder is of upmost concern. Pulling the chamber pot from beneath the bed, he gasps uselessly as he notices that the pot is already been used. He doesn't know why this shocks him but it does. 

Gritting his teeth and pushing his erection towards the chamber pot, Fusco conjures unpleasant thoughts so that his flow will start. Closing his eyes helps.

Taking it up, careful not to spill, he orders Reese to open the nearby window.

"Gardyloo!" 

Fusco rinses to pot and dumps that out the window as well, drying it before placing it back below the bed.

Reese slides a finger along the garishly floral matching pitcher: the pot and washstand bowl and pitcher are obviously a matched set. "Fancy."

There is an implied judgement in his tone.

"Twas a wedding gift. Follows it would follow my late wife's taste." He glances at the frilly curtains, scowling. "It was my dearest hope to please her in such matters, especially given that I care little for such matters."

"There's nothing wrong with being fancy from time to time."

"Well, find a way to unlock the parlor and have at the china cabinets. Have at it if you fancy such."

"Is your parlor locked?" asks Reese. "And what of the key?"

"I locked the door seven years ago and I flung the key as far as I could. To Hell wouldn't have been far enough!"

**Author's Note:**

> Shaw and Root are based here on a real couple!


End file.
